Chapter Text
Danse des petits cygnes
3 November 1949
Harry,
Writing to you (well, not you, but it feels like I am talking to you) these past few months has been cathartic. Not being in the wizarding world has been lonely.
Had we ever talked about how sexist that terminology is– wizarding world? Because it is, Harry. If I had brought this gross injustice up, you probably would have looked at me in confusion before–
Never mind.
I miss you. I miss Ron. I miss…
A tinkling noise caused Hermione to put down her fountain pen with a sigh and close the journal where she pretended to talk to her best friend, a friend who wouldn’t be born for another 30 years. Instinctively reaching into her skirt pocket, she felt the wood of two wands. One was broken, the edges of a phoenix feather tickling her fingers; the other was whole and 14 inches long, made of willow wood.
One was destroyed. The other never fit her. But it was all she had.
Hermione left the office, and knowing she worked on commission, gripped the willow stick in her pocket, discreetly evaporating dust from the merchandise.
“This is the place, I told you…”
“Are you certain? Because I told you not to waste my time.”
Passing a shelf of antique clocks, Hermione saw the backs of two gentlemen, speaking in low tones.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you?” Her cheeks ached from smiling, and she felt the cracks in her heavy crimson lipstick.
An average-looking man leered at her, his eyes trailing from the top of her head to her shoes. “Well, hello there. Told you coming to London was a good idea, Brax.”
The other man straightened and turned around, facing Hermione with an intrigued eyebrow raise. Hermione did a double-take, stopping herself from saying a name she shouldn’t know.
Because her mind had screamed “Malfoy.”
It felt like looking at a ghost of a boy that wouldn’t exist for decades.
Upon second glance, the mirror image lessened. Light blonde hair, not quite platinum blonde, and silver eyes, but not ‘Malfoy’ silver. His skin looked as though it was naturally pale, but he had a light tan, like he didn’t spend his time lurking around in Rooms of Requirement.
This man wasn’t Malfoy, just some unfairly good-looking doppelganger.
When he spoke, though, her heart plummeted.
“Miss, my companion, Eddie, and I are looking for an antique clock. It has unique…properties, and I am attempting to secure it for my family’s collection. I assure you, price is no object. We have plenty of…pounds.”
Hermione’s jaw dropped. The man may only marginally favour her former classmate, but the way he spoke was identical to the aristocratic drawl of Draco Malfoy.
“Miss, did you hear me?”
Shaking her head, smoothed curls bouncing, Hermione had to stop her first instinct: to scream at Draco Malfoy. But this…wasn’t Draco Malfoy. It was some relative, and he and his friend were looking for an antique item in a Muggle shop.
Hermione did not believe in coincidences.
“I think you may have the wrong shop,” she intoned firmly.
Eddie rolled his eyes and said, “C’mon, Brax. This bird obviously doesn’t want to help.”
But Brax leaned against the shelf casually next to Hermione and quirked an eyebrow, tapping a platinum ring with the letter ‘M’ engraved on it on the nearest display case, before drawling, “Now, princess, have you been told what the clock looks like? Have we told you about what it sounds like? Where it is from?” Gesturing imperiously with long, aristocratic fingers to the devices near him, he continued, “Because I see a shelf full of antique clocks, and you haven’t bothered to ask us any of the specifications of the clock. And I can assume, from the fact that a pretty cookie like you is working here, that you need money, and most shops like these pay on commission. So can you truly afford to lose us as customers, dollface?”
Hermione felt a tingle in her fingers as her hand unconsciously balled into a fist. Taking a deep breath, she had to remind herself that she couldn’t go around punching unsuspecting Malfoys in the 1940s.
But that didn’t mean she had to listen to this bullshit.
“Excuse me, sir. But I think it is highly improper to call me ‘princess,’ or ‘cookie,’ or ‘dollface.’ I am merely doing my job. You asked about a rare clock that you wanted to see, but none of these antique clocks are scarce.” Hermione felt her voice rise in volume as she continued, “Additionally. I think the dismissive tone you took with me was inappropriate for someone you had just met. So if you please, you and your friend can hunt for your rare clock, but I don’t need your gall–patronage.”
Hermione had seen Eddie’s face twist into shock and then annoyance at Hermione’s tirade, but with every word, Abraxas’s eyebrows seemed to rise more, and those infuriatingly full lips were lifting into an amused grin.
Before he could speak, Hermione stomped to the door, her heels clicking with each step, before opening it and facing them, sniping, “The shop is closed. Good day.”
Eddie briskly walked to the door and out onto the street, mumbling something about “mouthy broads.” But the blonde took a moment to fix his cufflinks exaggeratedly, all the while staring at Hermione. As he strode towards her, she smelt expensive woodsy cologne and something that reminded her of a day on the Quidditch pitch.
The tall blonde stooped to her level, and she could observe that his eyes were a mix of silver with shades of blue and green colouring them, and that his blonde eyelashes, a shade darker than his hair, were unfairly long. And that infuriating smirk once again crossed his lips, “Good day indeed. I apologise for the inconvenience, princess.”
And with that, Draco Malfoy’s spiritual and familial predecessor strolled past her, but not before he looked over his shoulder and gave her a small wink.
And of course, another smirk.
As soon as they rounded the corner, Hermione slammed the door and pulled out her wand to lock down the shop. She slid down the front of the door, landing on the floor and placing her head in her hands.
She knew she had been avoiding the wizarding world, but somehow, the wizarding world had managed to find her.
6 November, 1949
Harry,
I have been spiralling. I had kept myself hidden for so long, and for obvious reasons. The first day I arrived, I went to Borgin and Burke’s hunting him. With no luck. I had overheard the shop owner telling someone that he was out of the country.
I also realised that every day I spent in the wizarding world would alter our timeline. The chaos theory posits that even a butterfly flapping its wings can change events. So, what does a witch landing in 1949 England hunting a future Dark Lord do to the timeline? My only hope is that I can kill him, and maybe some things will stay the same. But until then, I tried to preserve our timeline by staying away from anyone involved in magic.
Then yesterday happened. Two men entered the shop. And one of them was clearly related to Malfoy.
I know.
All of this and my plans are going to be bloody foiled by Draco Malfoy’s ancestor. The irony isn’t lost on me either.
I also don’t believe in coincidences.
The worst part is, and don’t judge me, Harry, I was also desperate to interact with him. I haven’t spoken to a fellow witch or wizard in so long, it was almost nice to talk to someone who even resembled someone I knew–even if that someone was Malfoy. Pathetic, right?
Hermione closed her journal and leaned back. The Muggle paperbacks lining the table did not entice her. She was itching to read magical texts. Tomes. Anything to…connect with that part of herself.
The tinkle of the bell took her out of her thoughts, and she dragged herself to the front.
“Son of a bitch,” Hermione mumbled. Because there, once again, stood Brax and his forgettable friend. Somehow, the Malfoy man looked even more smug as he strode up to her, folding his camel trench over his arm, revealing a navy blue suit and a mint green tie that he probably spent an hour choosing to accentuate the green flecks in his eyes, blonde hair artfully tousled, and a smirk adorning those plump lips.
Prick.
“If it isn’t my favourite shopkeeper.”
Scowling, Hermione fixed her burnt orange sweater and spat out, “Good afternoon. How may I help you today, sir?”
“No need to act like strangers, princess.”
“Let’s just get on with this.”
Twisting that platinum ring on his finger, Abraxas smiled comfortably. “Now, now, princess. Where are your manners?”
Hermione snarled, “If you call me princess one more time…”
“Well, you have not given me a name to call you. So I apologise if I resort to pet names when addressing you. So let’s try this again, because in polite society one normally introduces oneself to the person they are conversing with. I am Abraxas Malfoy. This is my associate, Eddie Mulciber. And you are…”
Gritting her teeth, Hermione bit out, “Pleasure. I am Hermione…Potter.” She felt her insides clench at her own mistake. It was the first name that came to her head. It wasn’t an awful name to land on; it was a common Muggle surname as well, but there was obviously a Potter family in the wizarding world. But as far as Abraxas knew, she was just another Muggle shop girl.
Hopefully.
She was also, unfortunately, piecing together that she was dealing with two of the original Death Eaters from Tom Riddle’s time.
Abraxas looked directly into her eyes, his own sparkling, before her name spilt from his lips. “Hermione.” The way that he purred her name made Hermione hyperaware of how long it had been since she had a person say her name with anything other than professional detachment.
Hermione’s brain seemed to short-circuit at her own musings. He is a Malfoy! And not just any Malfoy. He is a known associate of Tom fucking Riddle.
“A beautiful name for a lovely lady, Hermione.” Abraxas said her name as if he were savouring it, his lips pressing together on the ‘m’ sound and grazing his teeth over his bottom lip after he completed the word, before he wet that tempting pink flesh with his tongue for a fleeting second.
A flush rising in her cheeks, Hermione once again mentally berated herself for checking out relatives of people who, for all intents and purposes, hated her.
“Now that the formalities are out of the way, Ms Potter,” Harry’s surname, leaving Abraxas’s lips, was almost as jarring as being referred to by it. “About this clock. You see, my father is quite intent on my acquiring it. And I’d hate to disappoint the old man, as I am his only heir.” Lowering his voice like he was telling her a secret just for her, Abraxas added, “Being an only child has its drawbacks…all the pressure and no one to carry the burden with.”
Smiling unwittingly, Hermione replied, “I understand completely.”
Was she flirting with Malfoy’s grandfather? A wave of disgust roiled over her, and a voice like Ron’s admonished her in her mind.
“Hey, this is Abraxas Malfoy. Father of Lucius Malfoy. Grandfather of Draco Malfoy. Arseholes can be attractive, ‘Mione. You’ve got undeniable proof with his legacy.”
Hermione shook her head, attempting professionalism again, and led him to the shelves with the oldest clocks. Gesturing to the rows of ornately carved cuckoos, she explained, “These are the rarest. If you can tell me what you are looking for, we can make this go by faster.”
Mulciber huffed, “This seems like it is going to be a bore. I am heading outside for a puff. You got this, Malfoy?”
Abraxas waved his hand dismissively at Mulciber, as Mulciber stalked off, leaving Hermione and the blonde between the shelves. For a moment, all she could do was breathe in that woodsy cologne…something almost like cedar. Hermione saw the light glint on his ring as he ran his finger along the shelf. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as if in deep concentration, and she saw his hand enter his suit pocket, a place she knew he would keep his wand. Immediately, her own hand went to her side, but stalled when he pulled out a piece of parchment.
Hermione watched him read over the elegant scrawl, biting his lip as he read. Re-folding the paper again, he stated, “Early 1730s, from the clockmaker Ketterer himself, German. Black forest, specifically, and made of linden wood. Painted black with green dragons carved into it. The sound from it should be particularly clear. And rumour is…” He leaned forward, looking at her conspiratorially, “...it never breaks. Like magic.”
The last word knocked Hermione out of her own enchantment, and she stiffened. “I know which you are speaking of. Follow me.” Leading him to the back shelf, she bent down to pick up a clock.
Taking the ornate timepiece out of her hands, Abraxas lifted it for inspection. He opened the door, causing a tiny dragon to pop out and the cuckoo to reverberate through the room. The blonde pressed his lips together, looking pleased at the antique, and said, “Perfect. My family had heard rumours that an original Ketterer had been sold here in a Mug– I mean, shop. I am so glad to have obtained it. What is the cost?”
Looking at the tiny tag attached, Hermione said, “1500 pounds.”
“Wonderful. I assume you accept banknotes?”
Her eyes widened. That was a substantial amount of money in her time. But in the 1940s, it was astronomical.
“Well, yes…”
“Marvellous. I must get back with this. My father has threatened to withhold my birthday celebration and subsequent access to my trust fund if I do not return with it.”
Reality hit again: Hermione had to remind herself that he may be unfairly attractive and a bit more charming, but he was still a Malfoy, and she definitely saw where this man’s future son got his arrogance. And where his grandson got his smug sense of entitlement.
At least he hadn’t called her a ‘mudblood’ yet.
Hermione led Abraxas to the register, and Mulciber already stood next to it. Her eyes narrowed, and she stated with suspicion, “I didn’t hear you come back in.”
“Damn cuckoo clock was clucking when I walked in. Bloody thing could be heard at the front door.”
After she boxed the clock, taking the money and glaring at the men distrustfully, Abraxas gestured to Mulciber. The shorter man grumbled as he roughly snatched the box and exited.
Abraxas shrugged his coat back over his shoulders. “Ms Potter. A pleasure. I would say that I am remiss not to see you again, but I feel as though you don’t feel the same way. So, alas, farewell.”
As he walked towards the door, Hermione called out, her need for connection outweighing her caution, “Hermione. Please. Just…Hermione.”
Looking back at her over his shoulder, Abraxas Malfoy genuinely smiled, a dimple showing on his right cheek. “Good-bye, Hermione. It has been a true…pleasure.”
After he exited the shop, she locked up with her wand, and then she sat in the office. Her fingers ran along her journal, considering writing more, because Abraxas Malfoy had awakened something in her that she had long felt dormant, butterflies still flapping in her stomach and warmth low in her abdomen, the word ‘pleasure’ running on loop in her mind.
20 November 1949
Harry,
I know I have been writing in here more frequently. It seems I can’t go a few hours without doing so. However, I’ve just been focused on reliving our past, and I think it is to avoid talking about what is truly on my mind. I know, I’m not even actually writing to you, but I still feel guilty.
I’m fixated on someone. And if you were here, you would have a thousand reasons for me not to be. I don’t know if it is because they are a bridge to the magic world, or if there's just something drawing me to him, or if I am just lonely.
But…I can’t stop thinking about Abraxas Malfoy.
Don’t judge me, Harry! Well, I know you aren’t actually reading this, but still. The Horcrux hunt was so long ago, and what happened, well…it was a moment in time. And a time that I’m not even part of anymore.
But Abraxas came into the shop today…
The Christmas crowds had started shopping in earnest. It was almost 5 pm, and Hermione’s toes were pinched in her kitten heels, and she was exhausted from helping ungrateful patrons all day. Sitting on the stool behind the register, she thumbed through her copy of Crime and Punishment as the last few consumers browsed. However, she wasn’t focused on the story. She was too tired, too cranky, and far too annoyed with the pittance she was earning. So when the bell above the door dinged, she didn’t even glance up.
She caught a whiff of the expensive cologne before she heard his voice.
“Good evening, princess.”
Looking up, she saw Abraxas Malfoy, grinning in her direction. And this time he was alone.
“Abraxas.”
Leaning against the counter and fixing his lush black trench coat, he said, “Now, now. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
Snorting inelegantly, Hermione countered, “Old friend? Seriously? We have spoken twice.”
Clutching his hand to his heart, Abraxas smiled more widely, “You wound me, Hermione. We are on a first-name basis, as you established.”
The clock struck 5 pm, and she observed as the final customer exited. “I need to close down the shop for the night.”
Straightening, Abraxas suggested, “Well, I would be more than willing to help. But if I do, you will allow me to escort you home.”
Glancing around nervously, Hermione became anxious. Now was usually the one time of day that she was blessedly able to use magic. “I really am faster on my own…”
“Because you use your wand.”
She stopped in her tracks on the way to the register, a chill running down her spine. “What did you say?” She slowly rounded on Abraxas.
Still leaning against the counter and pretending to pick lint off his pristine coat, Abraxas replied coolly, “Your wand. It helps you when closing down the shop.”
Hermione reached to grab the willow wand located in her pocket when the blonde unbuttoned his jacket, revealing his own wand in warning. “Now, now. Don’t. I am not here to interrogate you. Your business is your own. But…I returned after I left the other night, and lo and behold, I saw you shutting the curtains, turning off the lights, and locking the doors–all using your wand.”
Gripping the stick tightly in her pocket, Hermione steadied her voice as she asked, “Why did you come back at all?”
Abraxas put his hand into his coat on the opposite side of his wand and pulled out a cufflink– heavy silver, in the style of a snake, with emeralds in its eyes. “I lost its twin. I wouldn’t have bothered; I have more cufflinks than sense, but it is a Malfoy family heirloom. Heavy as a crown, but as it was my birthday, my father wanted me to play the proper heir. But imagine my surprise when I came back and saw the Muggle shop girl using quite a bit of impressive magic.”
Now was the time. Hermione could attack this man. Obliviate him. Throw him out on the London streets until someone finds him and takes him back to Wiltshire.
Or…she could try to find the advantage in connecting with the man probably closest to the monster she needed to destroy.
“So what if I am?”
Smirking, he put the cufflink back in his jacket and approached her, lifting both empty hands in front of him. “Then I think we could truly be friends, Hermione. I looked up the Potter family. Obviously, you are part of the other side. Still a pureblood branch, but considered the lesser to the messy-haired dolts that I know.”
Hermione bristled. “That wasn’t very kind.”
Stepping forward, Abraxas took a gloved hand and pushed a curl behind her ear, and purred, “I never said you were one.” Stepping back, he added, “Let me escort you home. I want to hear all about how a formidable witch from a pureblood line ends up working in a Muggle antique shop.”
At that moment, Hermione had to decide how willing she was to enter the snake pit, and how far she would go to win the war before it even began, and to see if she was willing to take the reprieve time travel gave her and actually change the fate of the world.
So, at the end of the evening, she took Abraxas Malfoy’s arm as he led her down the darkened London streets, allowing him to walk her home.
The walk to the boarding house was full of half-truths and a few lies. She admitted she was an orphan and that her family died during the war, and that she didn’t know Fleamont or Charlus Potter–all careful truths. But she had to lie and say she was homeschooled away from Britain. Abraxas conversed with her with ease, never breaking her gaze, and when he wasn’t trying to impress, he was a surprisingly good listener.
Eventually, they reached the dodgy boarding house, and he viewed it with his nose wrinkling. “You don’t have a family estate in your name? You have to stay here…with Muggles?”
There it was. The divide. That chasm that would always separate Hermione Granger from the Abraxas Malfoys of the world.
Hermione replied quietly, looking at the dilapidated place that served as her temporary home, “I wasn’t left with anything after they passed. Basically, just my wand and my name. That’s all I am now.”
Abraxas’s face softened, and his hand went up to her cheek. Hermione hadn’t realised she had tears falling until he swept one away with his gloved finger. Staring intently in her eyes, he apologetically muttered, “I’m sorry. It was not my intention to make you feel bad. I just…Hermione...I’ve only met you a few times, but you are…indescribable. You are so different from every other witch I’ve met. You captivate me.”
Hermione felt her breath hitch as his finger traced her cheekbone, trailing down to her bottom lip.
Abraxas whispered, thumbing her lip gently, “I want to kiss you. But I don’t think it's proper to do so without first courting you. So…” Abraxas took her hand in his and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I will pursue you.”
Raising an eyebrow, Hermione inquired, “And what if I don’t want to be courted?”
The blonde smirked at her unrepentantly and said, “Then, princess, I will just have to keep courting you until you change your mind. And trust me, Malfoys always win.”
Hermione’s heart plummeted, thinking how wrong he was.
26 December 1949
Harry,
Being courted is an odd thing. I have never been given so many flowers, pieces of jewellery, and gifts in my entire life.
And, well, I think. I may like him. I know that sounds unbelievable. A man who follows him. But, I figured I’ve fucked the timeline so thoroughly at this point anyway, I may as well try a different tactic– instead of hiding, I will try to take charge of my destiny. Because maybe, if I can appeal to the good man that I believe Abraxas is deep down, I can one day…save the whole world. Maybe save him. Maybe save you. Hopefully, save myself in the process.
I still miss you every day. But it hurts a little less when I’m with him. Maybe I am selfish. Maybe I’m…
A sharp crack startled her. Hermione went to the window and glanced out as Abraxas Malfoy was preparing to toss another rock. She grinned, rushing out, throwing her threadbare black coat over her cotton nightgown.
As she approached with her white pyjamas swishing around her knees, Hermione breathed out, fogging the air, “What are you doing here?”
Abraxas immediately took off his emerald scarf, wrapping it around her neck. “You are going to catch a chill. I’m here because I missed you on Christmas. My family did the traditional Yuletide celebrations, and all I could think of was how much I wished you were there.”
Despite her plans of keeping Abraxas at an arm’s length, her heart pounded, “Really?”
Abraxas pulled out a long, thin velvet box from his coat and smiled. “Turn around.”
Hermione followed his instructions and felt fingers move her hair from her neck, before cool metal touched her skin. She reached her hand to the hard circle at the hollow of her throat.
Suddenly, Abraxas’s cheek was next to hers. “It’s a Malfoy family heirloom. Platinum chain with an emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. I know you think I am not serious about courting you. But I am. And jewellery and flowers are not enough. I’d like to invite you to the annual Malfoy New Year’s ball and introduce Hermione Potter to everyone. Show them the witch I am courting. If you’ll agree, that is….”
She felt him straighten, and when he did, she finally felt the strength to look over her shoulder. He was staring down at her with adoration. Only one other person had ever looked at her like that, on another snowing day in a tent in a forest...
“I’d love to go with you.”
When their lips met, it was gentle, exploratory. Abraxas tilted her chin towards him, his blonde hair falling into his eyes, a press of those beautiful lips to hers, before a slow deepening of the kiss, mouths moving in tenderness, not desperation, in discovery, not certainty. When they pulled away, Abraxas gave her a tiny grin and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her back to his chest, and rested his chin on top of her head as snowflakes fell around them.
“Worth the wait.”
And for the first time in months, Hermione forgot the war in the future, the reason she had come to the 1940s, letting Abraxas Malfoy keep her warm.
Black Swan pas de deux
31 December 1949
Harry,
I’ve been researching my predicament. There is no way to move forward in time. Maybe it was meant to end up this way; I can save you, I can stop this from spiralling, I can save so many.
If this works, one day, you’ll be able to have that everyday life you dreamed of– parents, kids, normalcy.
I do have to admit that my intentions toward Abraxas Malfoy have become complicated. I want to help him see the light and stop him from enabling Riddle (and one day enact my own revenge on Riddle).
But he is funny. Intelligent. Kind. I never thought those would be words I would use to describe a Malfoy.
I may be falling for him.
I am going to his New Year’s Ball. No worries, he has mentioned that his ‘best friend’ won’t be there, that he is ‘occupied overseas.’ Through my deductions, his best mate is most certainly Tom Riddle. But I am going to fix that little problem, either by getting Abraxas on my side or taking care of Tom myself.
The ball is my way in, kind of like a fucked up, avenging Cinderella.
I am making excuses. I know this. But I have to pick myself up, Harry. I’ve spent three years and eight months living in the past. Dwelling on what happened on 2 May 1998. Hopefully, I am taking steps to correct it now. Because even more than my feelings, I am going to make things right for you. For Ron. For everyone.
“Now, don’t stray too far, princess. You may be a beautiful swan, but this room is full of vultures.”
Grinning, Hermione fixed her shimmering silver gown and responded, “I’ll remember that.”
Hermione’s pulse had rabbited since entering the imposing Manor in Wiltshire, but being on Abraxas’s arm made it seem less terrifying, his constant chatter almost a soothing balm to her nerves. For a moment, she was terrified they would enter the drawing room, causing the glamoured scar on her arm to itch. But instead, he led her to an ornate ballroom, glittering under the candlelight, a room she had not seen during her brief captivity at Malfoy Manor. The floors were a beautiful marble, the decor was black and silver over the light green walls, sconces creating ethereal shapes with their flickering luminescence.
It was beautiful and not at all the oppressive hellscape she would experience in the future.
But the people were the most enchanting part of the evening. Lush fabrics of silk, satin, and chiffon adorned them. The men in classic dress robes, the women in ornate gowns. All were wearing masks to provide the illusion of anonymity as they flirted and flitted about the cavernous space.
But her date put them all to shame. Abraxas wore deep hunter green dress robes that moved fluidly with his graceful movements, a white undershirt stretched over his athletic physique as he grabbed her libations. She could see subtle silver details in the stitching and his heirloom cufflinks, both gleaming under the candles. And those riveting eyes stared at her under a mask made of colourful peacock feathers, bringing out the prism of blues and greens.
Abraxas Malfoy introduced her to a dizzying number of purebloods as ‘Hermione Potter,’ most just kindly nodding along, others inquiring about the “other branch.” Her false relatives were decidedly not invited to the pureblood soiree.
Handing her a fourth glass of champagne, Abraxas let their fingers linger before fixing her white swan feather mask. He watched her put the glass to her lips, and he made a slight groan, fixing his bow tie, “You have no idea what it does to me seeing you put your lips to that glass.” As the night had worn on, his flirtations had grown bolder. And Hermione had to admit…she was basking in the light of his attention.
Swallowing deliberately, she leaned to his ear and said, “Do you want to dance again?”
His lips curved, and she could see the affirmation in his expression, until something caught his eye from over her shoulder, his expression darkening. “I would. But apparently Father needs me.”
Abraxas took her satin-gloved hand and kissed it, murmuring against her knuckles, “Now, don’t let anyone else steal you away. I am not so possessive as to say you can’t dance with others. Just remember, when the clock strikes midnight, I am the one who gets to kiss those crimson lips.”
Straightening up, Abraxas headed towards an older blonde man with a stern face, but not before shooting her another million-galleon smile over his shoulder at her. She stood by the drink table and observed as Abraxas and the man who was clearly his father strode away.
Leaning against a column, Hermione looked up at the vaulted ceilings and pondered the evening. It was so easy. She and Abraxas had more in common than one would think. Both were voracious readers, enjoyed talking about literature and the arts, and he was witty and a bit more self-deprecating than she’d initially assumed. But more than that, there was some aching kindness underneath his facade. The part of himself he showed her in his actions, his small touches, gentle smiles, insistence on showing her off to everyone, despite her dubious surname.
Abraxas Malfoy appeared to be a good man.
Harry’s voice suddenly seemed to ring in her head.
“But. Hermione. What would happen if they knew the full truth, who you really are? Would they still act the same way? The glamour on your arm is hiding you. He is a Malfoy. What would he do if he knew the truth?”
A smooth, melodious voice ripped her from her thoughts.
“A beautiful swan like you shouldn’t be standing alone by a drink table. What kind of fool would leave a woman like you unescorted?”
Turning to the source of the velvety baritone, Hermione was ready rant about not needing an escort when her breath was taken away. Before her stood a man in a mask of swan feathers, the inverse of her own, black as night, framing midnight-blue eyes that almost looked obsidian in the shifting light. But as striking as the mask was, it could barely compare to the magnificence of his devastatingly handsome face. The ornamentation almost looked dowdy sitting atop high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and a sharp, angular jaw.
“My apologies if I startled you, miss. I just observed you looked rather lonely standing over here.”
Hermione felt breathless as she watched his lips eloquently pronounce each word. “I…no, my apologies. I’m being rude. My date went off to see his father.”
He gave her a slight grin, showing a row of pearly white teeth. Hermione could smell a hint of mint toothpaste, a decidedly Muggle item, as she looked up into his dark eyes. The mystery man towered over her, but his presence was charming and polite, putting her at ease.
“Now I am being rude. I meant to ask you to dance, but instead I fear I have startled you. I would hate for you to waste away this perfect evening waiting around for a man who was careless enough to leave you without a dancing partner.” The man before her ran a long hand with pale fingers through wavy raven-locks before extending it to her. “If I may be so bold.”
Biting her lip unconsciously, Hermione weighed her options. Abraxas did say to dance with others. And it had been upwards of ten minutes since she had last seen him.
“One dance. I am here with another.” She placed her gloved palm into his as he gently moved towards her, gently gripping her waist with his other hand.
“I promise not to steal you away. I must say, I was enjoying observing your…feathers.” He gestured to her white-and-silver swan feathers. “They make a lovely counterpoint to my own.”
The music began to flow into a slower, smoother, jazzy tone as he led her into a dance. The wizard before her wasn’t as naturally adept in his steps as Abraxas, his movements almost too precise. Hermione understood completely. Her childhood dance teacher said that she lacked “soul” in her movement, and she treated it like learning a math equation; this man was leading her with careful execution.
Her fingers rested on the black fabric draping over his shoulder. His clothing was elegant, but lacked the expensive sheen that many of the other purebloods seemed to possess.
As they moved to the music, he smiled charmingly and said, “Now tell me, Odette…”
“Odette…”
“Swan Lake. I apologise. I know that it is a Muggle ballet…”
Immediately, Hermione interrupted in awe, “No, I understood the reference! I was just surprised. Many pureblood families don’t even acknowledge any Muggle entertainment. I don’t mind being Odette.”
The man in the black mask beamed at her. Hermione felt his fingers squeeze hers briefly, as he leaned down and whispered against her ear, his cheek brushing hers for just an instant, the warmth of his breath making Hermione's skin flush, “People can be very shortsighted when it comes to their own prejudices, can’t they?” Backing away, he raised an eyebrow at her, as if daring her to disagree.
Without meaning to, Hermione moved closer. Why was this man affecting her so much? She didn’t even know his name…
Hermione felt his thumb lightly rub the side of her satin gown, and she breathed out, “Swan Lake… The black feathers would make you von Rothbart.”
Tilting his head and furrowing his brows in mock concern, the wizard looked around conspiratorially before purring, “Wouldn’t that make me the villain?”
Throwing her head back, Hermione laughed out before looking at him in mock seriousness, “Villains normally don’t point out they are the villain this early in their evil plans.”
A slow smile made his features even more beautiful, and there seemed to be a twinkle in those twilight eyes as he replied in a low voice, “Good. Because I would hate for you to fly away from me before the song is over, little Odette.”
The blush on Hermione’s cheeks was only partially from the champagne. “One song. Then, I must find my date.”
‘Von Rothbart,’ as she had taken to calling him in her mind, said, “Of course. Maybe I could assist. I was not a Hufflepuff in school, but I am exceptionally good at finding things.”
“Oh! What house were you in?” Too much champagne loosened Hermione’s tongue, and what she should and shouldn’t talk about became as distorted in her mind as the light dancing across the smooth skin of the man before her.
“Guess.”
Tilting her own head this time, Hermione looked him over. “Well, you eliminated Hufflepuff. But I would have never guessed that. You were quite bold to ask me to dance, so Gryffindor is a possibility.” She saw him roll his eyes and corrected, “But your reaction indicates otherwise. You did steal me away from my date, so Slytherin is in the mix. But if I were to guess…Ravenclaw. Well-spoken. Doesn’t limit knowledge based on prejudices. And just delusional enough to dance with the future lord of the Manor’s date.”
Raising an eyebrow, her mystery dancer intoned, “Ah. So you are Abraxas’s date. I’ve heard about you through a few others. He seems quite taken. And I can see why.”
Frowning, Hermione surveyed the room. She and ‘von Rothbart’ were dancing to a second tune, and Abraxas was still nowhere to be found. “Yes. Well, I have no idea where he went…”
Stepping back and releasing her hand, her von Rothbart suggested, “Well, if I may. I am a friend of a friend of your date. So I have been to the Manor before. I could assist you in finding him.”
Hermione felt slight panic rise at the thought that Abraxas may have abandoned her. But when she looked up at the man, she felt an odd sort of comfort, almost familiar in nature.
“Fine, von Rothbart, help me prove that you aren’t the villain in this story.”
As he offered his arm, she slid her gloved hand into it. He nodded down at her in faux-seriousness, “It is my job to rescue lonely damsels in distress.”
As they hunted for Abraxas, they spoke about the evening, the dance, the portraits, the weather, and how another decade was ending. Hermione noticed he was being quite coy about himself, but she also knew that he probably did not want to offend Abraxas Malfoy. In any timeline, the Malfoys were powerful.
As they reached the end of the hall, her masked escort breathed out in a voice only for her, “There is his father’s office. It sounds like…”
A familiar drawl tinged with irritation rang into the hallway, “Father, I do not understand why you are overreacting to this.”
Another voice, similar to Abraxas’s, but older and clearly displeased, replied, “Because I was informed she is from the lesser branch of a family who isn’t even pureblood enough to be Sacred Twenty-Eight. We are Malfoys, Abraxas, and we do not associate with those beneath us. You already have had a contract…”
“I don’t want to be betrothed to that girl! I like Hermione Potter. I am courting her! Properly. And I do not need your leave to do so!” Abraxas’s voice rose, each word infused with that aristocratic disdain and, admittedly, a bit of petulance, sounding eerily like Draco.
There was the sound of a glass being slammed onto the table. Then Abraxas’s father stated firmly, “If you continue this folly with a woman you paraded around this event despite knowing that it would be met with my disapproval, you will be disinherited. I will marry again, have another heir–you are not the head of this family yet, son.”
Abraxas’s voice was almost a growl, “I don’t care what you say, Father. I will do what I want. She is a pureblood girl who just happens to be from a lesser house. It isn’t like I am pursuing some mudblood. ”
Mudblood.
The word cut Hermione like a dagger to the flesh. She felt the air leave her lungs. Her world spun. This witty, interesting, kind man…was everything she feared him to be.
The word rang in her mind in that disgusted tone that Abraxas had just deployed: mudblood, mudblood, mudblood.
The sound of Abraxas’s father’s voice cut through the air, final and definitive in its cruelty, “Escort the girl home. Then wash your hands of this. You have no galleons of your own. It is all tied to our family. You have no skills. You spend more time pursuing Dark Magic with that freak you follow than you do accomplishing anything–you can barely sit through a business meeting. And you think I’ll let you make decisions on your own that will affect my name? Let you choose a bride?”
“You can’t…”
“I can and I will! Do you understand me, Abraxas?”
A long pause. And Abraxas acquiesced. “Yes, Father.”
Hermione suddenly felt ill. Nauseous, the champagne and betrayal began to manifest as physical sickness.
A squeeze on her arm, and her von Rothbart said softly, “Come. Let’s get out of here.” The walk back to the ballroom seemed to take only seconds, and the masked stranger probed, “Are you all right, Ms Potter?”
The name seemed to push her even deeper into her melancholy. “Yes, well. Just call me Hermione. The Potter name apparently does me no favours.”
“Well, Hermione,” he said her name as if he had known her for months, not this past hour, “If I could be so bold, I could escort you home.”
With a small smile, she replied, “You don’t have to. I live all the way in London. It’s…”
“No imposition. Just wait here. I am going to say goodbye to the host. Then you can come with me to get my cloak on the way out.”
Nodding, Hermione grabbed another glass of champagne. “If it isn’t an imposition...”
Taking her hand into his, he squeezed and smiled. “Wait right here.”
As he exited, Hermione took in the space again, removing her gloves to feel the chill of the glass on her fingers. It seemed so garish in its opulence now, screaming at her that she did not belong. Sighing, she glanced immediately to her right and did a double-take.
Because there, standing awkwardly, was a tall man, lanky, with messy red hair and freckles. His mask of blue feathers brought out the hues in his eyes and complemented his humble tan dress robes.
She must have stared too long because the man asked inelegantly, “Oh gods. I don’t have something on my face, do I?”
Snorting and feeling her heart break, Hermione replied, “Not at all. You look like…an old friend of mine.”
“Bloody hell. Probably a cousin or something.” Extending his hand for a handshake, the man introduced himself. “Septimus Weasley. Not sure why I’m here. Got an invitation a week ago. Wasn’t even gonna come, but I got a crush on a girl…damn…too much firewhisky…I’m rambling like a first-year. Who are you?”
With a bittersweet smile, Hermione replied, “Hermione. And you fit right in here. Weasleys are Sacred Twenty-Eight, are they not?”
A low laugh emitted from the redhead. “By technicality. My dad reckons that Cantankerous was sloshed when he made the list and forgot to strike us off before the book went to the publisher. So, Hermione, what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a snake pit like this?”
Sipping her champagne, she replied, “Trying not to get bit.”
Hermione fell into a familiar pattern with the ginger. He was calmer than Ron, more confident, but his humour and humility were all Weasley. The redhead became distracted by a pretty brunette flashing flirtatious eyes at him, and he said, “Well, Hermione. It has been a pleasure, but I gotta ask this pretty witch to dance before I lose my nerve. Is my face still okay? Nothing spilt on my robes?”
Staring up at his crooked smile on his freckled face, Hermione said, “Perfect. Now go get the girl.”
As she watched that familiar red hair disappear into the crowd, a dark spell of loneliness fell upon her. And every emotion she had been repressing for months, no years, both backwards and forwards in time, washed over her.
Guilt.
Loneliness.
Anger.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
Harry. Ron. The war. The hunt. Abraxas.
Hermione just wanted to go home. Not to the boarding house. Not to Hogwarts. But her real home before she knew magic.
She wanted to be anything but the ‘Brightest Witch of her Age.’ To be anything but Harry Potter’s best friend. To be anything but the girl who flew back in time to end up alone amongst the elite who would never accept her. She suddenly had the urge to feel the wind hit her face as she flung herself from the second-floor terrace, and to land in the mud of the Wiltshire grounds.
That smooth baritone seemed to shake her from her trance. “Hermione? I am ready to escort you home.”
Blinking rapidly, she turned to face the man in the black swan mask, his brows furrowed and those long fingers somehow grasping her elbow. As if waking from a dream, Hermione said decisively, “Of course. That would be lovely. I need to get my cloak…”
Von Rothbart moved her through the hallways, and she noticed he smelled of clean soap and something she couldn’t define. Something familiar. Just as her mind began to connect the dots of what that smell was…
“I must stop by my quarters to obtain my cloak first. Accompany me?”
She stared up at him, scrutinising that elegantly beautiful facade, his tall stature, his lean but solid frame, and for the first time in what felt like ages, her Gryffindor recklessness was resurrected. In a breathy voice, she stated, “Lead the way.”
The smile that stretched across those perfect features could only be described as wicked.
Leading her to a room somewhere on the second floor, Hermione observed the blondes in the portraits on the wall with increasing disgust. Arriving, he twisted the ornate door handle, and Hermione began to feel doubt. What was she attempting? A one-night stand with a stranger?
But her von Rothbart ushered her inside. Glancing around the space, she saw the elegant Malfoy decor as if it were taunting her. Dark green furnishings, a lovely four-poster bed, and a side table with a wrapped package. At the click of the door, she turned around. Her masked companion brushed past, grabbing from his cloak a vial in the pocket. Handing it to her, he stated, “Sober up potion…for the walk home.”
Uncorking the vial and swallowing, Hermione felt her sobriety return, but not her usual anxiety. Boldly, bravely, she stepped forward, her voice breathy with want. “What if I don’t want to go home?”
The man untied her mask and tossed it aside before running his fingers along her neck, tracing her jaw until he reached her curls. “You are magnificent, little Odette.”
Hermione’s fingers trembled as she reached up and slid his mask off. He was more breathtaking without the accoutrement. He gave her a confident smile, like he was the only one who knew a punchline to a joke about the universe, and he pulled her to him.
He descended on her lips with fervour. Where Abraxas explored, this man demanded. She opened her mouth to deepen the kiss immediately, as his hands ran from her neck down to the gown's straps, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to caress the skin beneath, his elegant fingers almost cool to the touch on her heated skin. His other hand grasped the back of her skull, threaded through her curls, no hesitation or propriety, just ownership.
A warmth began to pool low in Hermione’s abdomen as those devilish fingers started to adjust her dress strap, his lips descending on her neck. He muttered into her skin, “We can stop. At any moment. You are in control.”
She gasped as his hand slid one strap down completely, exposing the fact that the dress did not allow her to wear a bra. “I’ve never done this before…I mean, I have…but never…with a stranger…”
He chuckled, a low rumble, as he looked into her eyes, making Hermione press her thighs together. “Nor have I. Not truly. Not with a witch like you.”
The admission ignited a fire in Hermione. She reached up and pulled him to her lips, kissing feverishly, as he yanked down both straps off her shoulders, letting the gown pool at her feet. She stood before him in only her knickers and heels as he lifted her under her thighs and carried her to the four-poster bed. He commanded, “Lay still.”
As she lay on the bed, he crawled over her like a predator, his eyes hooded. Kissing her deeply again, his tongue exploring her mouth, he descended to pepper kisses down her neck. “Now, little Odette. I do not plan on stopping until I have you satisfied. But you have to listen to my every command. Nothing too…untoward. But I am in charge, if you so choose.”
His warm mouth went down her sternum until he reached a peaked nipple, taking it slowly into his mouth, flicking his tongue precisely, his midnight blue eyes not breaking her gaze as she panted beneath him. Popping gently off, he took one hand and encircled the nipple before sliding the other down the plane of her stomach, underneath her waistband, and into her knickers, stopping short of where she needed him the most.
“Can you do that, little Odette?”
Hermione’s brain, usually a cacophony of ideas and words, a screaming chamber of thoughts and equations, short-circuited as his long finger slid into her slick folds. Nodding vigorously, she breathed out, “Gods, yes. Yes. I can listen.”
With an amused smile, he slid down her panties, leaving her heels on, before settling between her thighs. “Good girl.”
Her eyes widened as she realised what he was about to do…
“Oh, fuck!”
He had spread her with his fingers and licked a filthy stripe from her core to her clit, groaning as he tasted her. He quirked his lips and rasped, “Don’t look away.” Then he dove back in.
Hermione had little frame of reference for this, but she was sure no man had ever been this skilled in using his mouth on a woman. His tongue moved with precision, lapping at her wet heat. His fingers held her folds apart while his other hand gripped her slender hip, keeping her pinned to the mattress. His eyes rarely left hers, a flicker of amusement colouring them as her back arched and she keened. When he wrapped his lips around that sensitive bundle of nerves, his eyebrows raised as if once again, he was in on some private joke.
Pausing, he looked up at her, his lips glistening with her slick, and he commanded, “You are going to let go now.” And he delved back in.
Hermione could swear she heard a sibilant sound as he flicked his tongue over her clit.
And then, she shattered, body taut and her voice gasping. “Oh God!!!”
Panting and collapsing back on the Malfoy pillows. Hermione observed him filthily lick his lips and remove his outer robes, still fully dressed, while she was only in her heels. Pulling her up as he sat on the bed, he captured her gasps, allowing her to taste herself on his mouth, before moving her into his lap, where she could feel how hard he was against her thighs. He purred, “I like to do things in threes. So I am going to make you come apart three times this evening. Do you think you can do that for me?”
Barely coherent, Hermione looked up at her von Rothbart and said, “I can…”
Fingers sliding down her body into her heated folds, he angled her so that she was facing him. “Now, my little Odette, I want you to disrobe me while I use my fingers. Don’t stop no matter what I say or how you feel.”
Hermione realised he had not used his fingers when he was pleasuring her with his mouth, so when he sank his first finger in, she squeaked.
“So, so tight. You are a good girl, aren’t you?”
At the adulation, she clenched around his digit. “Yes….yes…”
Smirking and kissing her neck, he nipped at her pulse point, “Somebody enjoys praise.”
As she managed to unbutton his shirt and pull it over his shoulders, revealing a pale but defined chest, he inserted a second finger.
“Oh! Oh…I don’t…I can’t…”
“Now, now. My little swan is not giving up so easily, is she?”
Hermione whimpered, riding his fingers as his lips met hers in another searing kiss. She tried to press against his hard length, still trapped in his pants.
For a moment, she thought of Harry. Those nights in the tent. How he had made her whimper and moan… Then she felt a third finger enter her roughly, ceasing all thoughts of Harry, and she choked out, “Oh….that’s…”
He growled against her lips, “Three. You’re doing so well, Hermione.”
His thumb pressed her clit as she ground down harder into his palm. Her hands travelled to his belt buckle, trying to undo the silver at her awkward angle, while his thumb pressed harder. She felt disoriented, almost as if this were an out-of-body experience. The thrill of being with someone new elicited a dizzying array of arousal, but for some reason, she felt a sense of deja vu.
Hermione’s walls fluttered around his fingers as he breathed into her ear before nipping at her lobe, “Again.”
Her world seemed to shatter as she came, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he hooked his fingers deep inside her, his thumb pressing that bundle of nerves that made her dizzy.
His lips met hers again, tongue exploring her mouth with obsessive devotion.
Pulling back, hair mussed, midnight blue eyes as black as the robes he wore, he ordered, “Lie back, little Odette.”
Hermione, satiated, felt almost boneless in his ministrations as he laid her down once more. She watched as he stripped off his leather belt, pulling his pants down carefully, his undershorts going with them. Her breath hitched as she witnessed his hard, perfect cock.
Despite her inexperience, she knew that he was perfect. Long. The right amount of girth that she could imagine filling her, and it was almost elegant in its countenance.
She still couldn’t believe she was doing this. She wasn’t sure how she was justifying this in her logical mind. But something about the man made her feel like this was destiny.
He loomed over her, pressing his hard length against her thigh before taking her wrists and gripping them above her head between pale fingers.
“You’ll still receive your third, I am certain.” He thrust into her and groaned. “But it is my turn now.”
Hermione’s gasp echoed through the darkened room as he entered her, and his eyes grew wild once he bottomed out.
He growled, leaning in for a kiss, “Perfect.”
Then he moved. His motions were languid and unrushed at first, drawing out before pushing back in, never releasing Hermione's wrists. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward and took her hardened nipple into his mouth before moving to the other one. When his hips snapped, Hermione was overwhelmed by the fullness she felt when he filled her each time, grinding his pubic bone against her clit to stimulate her further.
“I am going to ruin you, Hermione. Make you forget Malfoy…ever existed. You take me so beautifully.”
Hermione had only had sex a handful of times. Rushed, starving, clinging to survival. This was so different, the way he moved in her. He was like a man on a mission- sure, confident, and unrelenting.
And he continued to praise her, and Hermione embraced every word.
“Such a perfect cunt. Such a good girl taking me so willingly. Aren’t you, Hermione? My good girl. Abraxas is a fool for squandering this.”
Removing one hand from her wrists but keeping the other firmly in place, he grabbed under her knee, hooking it over his hip to get a deeper angle, hitting a spot inside her that made her unable to create coherent thought.
Hermione tossed her head back and cried, “Oh! Oh…”
Looking down at her, his face once again had that knowing smile as he rasped, “There it is.” Finally releasing her wrists, she grasped the sheets as Tom slid his fingers down her body to the spot that would push her over the edge. Rubbing her with his fingers frantically, he leaned forward, commanding against her lips as his thrusts grew erratic, “Come. Now.”
“I…I don’t know if I…”
His hips snapped harder as his hand travelled from her clit to her neck, not choking, but controlling with pressure. He rasped against her lips again, his hair falling into those eyes that were almost black now, his face catching the moonlight, the snap of his hips driving her closer to the edge with every movement, “COME. I command you.”
Hermione thought for just a moment that a trick of the light made his eyes look red…
Her vision whited out as her climax washed over her, her walls fluttering and clenching around his length as he pushed forward one final time before he met his own release, filling her with warmth. She felt his weight press down where she panted. His hand released her neck to trace her side down to her hip, where he circled his fingers.
“Good girl.”
At his praise, her eyes opened, and Hermione blushed.
Giving her a gentle press of his lips to her temple and squeezing her hip, he stood, reaching for his clothes. He handed her the discarded panties as she lethargically sat up, sliding them on. He was already in his slacks and buttoning his shirt by the time she realised her dress was on the other side of the room.
Shyly, Hermione requested, “Can you hand me my gown?”
Fixing the top button, her von Rothbart replied, “Of course. However, there is a gift for you on the side table.”
“For me? But we just met. How would you…”
Leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to her messy curls, he intoned, “Just open it.”
With a small smile and pulling the blanket up over her breasts, Hermione leaned down to the bedside table. The box was simple, and she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was grabbing her dress. She turned back to the box and took off the ribbon and felt the bed move behind her as he sat behind her bare back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
Opening the gift, her eyes widened.
There sat a journal with the initials HJG on the front. It was her journal. When she opened it, the pages were filled with more writing than she remembered doing, all in her tiny script.
Her heartbeat began to increase, “How did…”
But then…
Her heart stopped. The room spun. And her fingers grasped something cold, metal, and pulsing.
There, underneath the journal, sat a familiar chain attached to a large, oval pendant with a serpentine S. His cool cheek pressed to hers as he whispered, “You guessed my house incorrectly, princess.”